Confessions of an Ex-Scrapbooker

If I can call myself a scrapbooker, then it’s only with the highest degree of shame. I encompass everything ugly about this hobby.

Tacky? In college I cut out individual letters from magazines ransom-note style and slapped them on pages with a glue stick.
Time consuming? I once glued individual pieces of that confetti that was popular in the nineties all over a birthday party page.
Narcissistic? Oh please, try an entire 48-page book about just our engagement. Not our wedding album, preparing for the wedding. With a whole spread about how much Mike and I talked on the phone. Wow. My children will throw it straight into the bottom of the Dumpster when cleaning out my room at the rest home.
Expensive? When we moved into a bigger house, I literally filled a room with unused scrapbooking stuff. In the world of crafts and hobbies, unused=waste of money. Which brings me to my last quality (and possibly most damning) as a scrapbooker.
Catie will turn six in August, and most of that unused craft crap (as M. likes to call it) is to use in her baby book. Not to mention the boxes and boxes of pictures stacked in the closet. It seems that in the past six years, every time I felt guilty about not working on her book, I bought paper and stickers and developed pictures to try and guilt myself into it.
Didn’t work.
I could now create a dozen baby books for her. And a few for the other kids we’ve had in the past six years. The problem? I have no motivation to do it.
Well, one motivation. The crapbooking room (also a phrase of M.’s) needs to be Baby #4’s nursery. I can’t move all this stuff (again). I have no choice but to get on it. My other motivation is that Catie is now old enough to help. Oh, the shame. Keeping her from fun and fresh air outside to sit next to me and slap down letters with a glue stick.
Maybe I’ll just post some kids’ baby pictures here and call it good.
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